


few people who i really love

by alfie_aurel



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, F/F, F/M, M/M, it became an excuse for rambling about clothes, martin has a bookshop and it's Wonderful, tea is referenced so many times in this i apologise, this started as a pride and prejudice au, written for the RQBB 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26379121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfie_aurel/pseuds/alfie_aurel
Summary: It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that an avatar alone in the world is beneficial for all parties involved.The last thing Jonathan Sims expected when he came to the small town of London was to fall in love.A vague Pride and Prejudice AU featuring many cups of tea, British-typical rainy weather, and, of course, The Admiral.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 17
Kudos: 26
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. to be fond of dancing was a certain step to falling in love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the RQBB 2020! The art was done by the wonderful @emarcial on tumblr, their art is amazing. 
> 
> This started as a Pride and Prejudice AU, it became something else entirely. Chapter title is from Chapter 3 of Pride and Prejudice.

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that an avatar alone in the world is beneficial for all parties involved. 

Aside, of course, for the avatar themselves. Condemned to a life without emotion, a small number yearn for the relieving touch of a kindred soul, to willingly open themselves to the burning pain that emotion can bring, to allow tendrils of feeling to burrow down into their un-beating hearts. But they cannot do anything about this wish, so, on the whole, shut themselves behind the windows of abandoned buildings or lonely farmhouses, resolved to watch the years pass them by. 

So, when rumour spread through the isolated countryside parish of London that not one, but two, of these feared entities had taken a metaphorical roost in the abandoned manor near Mr. Banks’ estate, alarm quickly spread through the village. 

This panic reached the house of our characters, dear reader, with the arrival of the morning post. 

“Did you hear what’s living in the Institute, Martin?” Sasha James said over a table laden with tea and fresh pastries to her companion.

(The Institute was the suitably imposing local name for the aforementioned abandoned manor, due to its interior being entirely full of shelves brimming with strange records. Those few who are brave enough to enter it say these records concern places they have never heard of, and which can’t be found in any encyclopedia. They all are stamped with the name “Magnus” - the last lord of that line, Jonah, had pretended to be the authority of all fears. He soon found out they are uncontrollable, and was consumed by his hubristic need for knowledge. Now his name is lost to footnotes and appendices, a brief interruption in a narrative of terror.)

Sasha James was the self-proclaimed local historian, priding herself on her knowledge of the local area and all of its inhabitants, past and present. She, unlike many people of the town, had remained mostly untouched by the entities - curious, yes, but never crossing that line into paranoia and gluttony. So when these two individuals entered her realm of knowledge, she immediately made it her mission to discover what business they had in London. 

Her companion, Martin Blackwood, was less interested. He had recently made the purchase of a (rather large) amount of tea, and was currently engrossed in his latest attempt at making a satisfying cup. Balanced on his lap were several tries which had been deemed unsuccessful, so when Sasha spoke he jumped in shock, scattering droplets across the hardwood floor.

“Oh, dammit!” he cried, dumping his current attempt over his lap. 

Just at this moment, a few miles away, a similar curse was uttered by one of those strange inhabitants of the old manor.

“Oh, dammit!” Jonathan Sims cried, dropping a file onto his desk and falling back into his chair. “God - it always is the Lukas family, I should have known, I should have guessed.” he muttered, picking up another nearly-identical file and, gripping his hands on it like a lifeline, mouthed its words silently. 

Now, my dear reader, this Jonathan Sims (or Jon, as his dwindling number of friends knew him) was indeed one of the aforementioned feared avatars - a rather reluctant one perhaps, but an avatar still. He was the Archivist, the conduit of the Ceaseless Watcher - one of the more passive powers perhaps, but a fitting patron for a man who would choose to spend his days cooped up inside his current nest, preferably with only a quill and piles upon piles of files for company. 

He was a tall man, sitting awkwardly in the weathered red armchair left behind by the previous inhabitants (the Keay family, if you care to know). The sheer volume of papers pulled down from the shelves in an abandoned attempt at re-organisation towered over him, creating a web of white columns teetering on collapse. His brown (already greying at the temples at the time of his...ascension, the best word is) hair was long and falling out of a hastily-made bun, leading to Jon blowing strands out of his face every so often. 

Jon was attempting to map out the purchases of one Peter Lukas, the patriarch of the Lukas clan. The whole family were avatars of the Lonely, a solitary but meddlesome power. (As Jon is currently, I too, dear reader, have spent a lot of time puzzling how a family can all be lonely - in order to be truly lonely, surely you cannot have friends or family? But, forget it. There are stranger mysteries here.) Jon was searching for a link between the aforementioned Peter’s purchases, and those of his own erstwhile master, a Mr Elias Bouchard.

Elias Bouchard was a strange character, according to most he met. He always smiled, always knew, always guessed what you were going to say before you even thought it. You might have guessed that he was an avatar of the Beholding already, but the frankly ridiculous patterns of swirling eyes on his favourite tie would confirm your thought, my reader. Elias always did like his symbols, his marks. There had been some kind of link between the Lukas family and Mr Bouchard, although of what kind and for what purpose Jon did not know.

Yet.

Back at the other house - 93 Lancaster Road - Sasha and Martin had just finished cleaning up the spilt tea when the doorbell rang.

Here is where I must explain something about the town of London. 

As a small town in the English countryside, you might expect everyone to know and at the very least tolerate each other. But it was just the opposite, to the extent that most souls would not venture to certain parts of the town for fear of supernatural violence - for instance, Sasha herself would not go anywhere near the house of Nikola Orsinov (more commonly referred to as the not-House, due to its strange design), and refused to interact with many of the family’s associates. Martin would cross the street anytime he neared the crystal shop owned by Jane Prentiss, tip-toeing over the worms that lay wriggling outside. Country town politics aside, it made for a confusing web of alliances and hatreds, something Sasha was attempting to chronicle in her current project. It wasn’t going very well. 

The duo who had just rang the doorbell however, were the exception that proves this rule - including an avatar’s tendency to seclusion. 

Martin, his trousers still half-soaked in tea, opened the door to find Mr Michael Shelley and Miss Helen Richardson, the town’s self-appointed estate agents. No-one had bought a house from them and survived to live in it. 

“May we come in, Martin?” Michael asked. He was a tall man, with curly blond hair and a toothy grin. His companion was even taller, with dark skin and a giggle that echoed through hallways long after it should have gone. 

Martin stepped back in shock. “Oh! Hello!” 

A pause.

“Yes, of course you can come in, sorry - spilt a bit of tea, unexpected visitors, you know the rest.”

(Martin, as I’m sure you’re guessing, had a small bit of a tendency to babble when surprised. It’s quite adorable.)

As he gestured them in to follow him down the hall (the corners of which were shadowy with spider-webs - neither Martin or Sasha was tall enough to reach them when dusting, and the third resident of the house? Well. You’ll meet him soon enough.) Sasha entered through the door to the kitchen at the back end of the house, inviting them into the sitting room.

“We’ll clean up the kitchen later, Martin.” She muttered as they entered. 

The sitting room itself was rather tastefully decorated, compared to the clashing tastes at war in the rest of the house. Dark blue sofas framed a coffee table with a swirling pattern on it, which Michael seemed to become enraptured with whenever he visited. The room seemed - homely, for lack of a better word. The eye of the storm in this maelstrom of a house, as Martin would put it. 

Martin offered to make tea as they sat on the sofas; which Sasha hastily interrupted with a question on what business the two had here - it was not their usual hours for calling, and besides, they usually at least sent a message along beforehand? (Even if the messenger seemed supernaturally dazed and confused, before being sent on their way after a cup of tea and a biscuit.) 

“We want to invite you to a ball. All of you.” Helen replied, casually leaning back and crossing her arms. The last part was said with a pointed look downstairs, as a loud bang rang throughout the house from directly below them. 

Sasha and Martin shared a tired look.

“It’s a party at ours, obviously.” Michael continued, a lopsided smile on his face, after no response from either. “We’re hoping the entire town will turn out.”

By now, smoke was beginning to creep up through the floorboards, as Martin started to fidget.

“That’s nice, Michael. When is it?” Sasha replied as she stood up, moving to grab a bucket of water conveniently placed by the door.

“Tonight,” Helen said, idly staring at her fingernails, a smile playing on her cheeks. “We hope to see you there.”

“We’ve heard rumours,” Michael added, “that our two new residents will come as well.”

Now Sasha James loves a mystery. Martin however, does not. He simply likes to accept the world as it is given to him, taking his blows as they come, and refuses to attempt to understand the endless quest for knowledge felt by so many. So he instead picked up the bucket, and headed downstairs. 

Sasha sat down again, hoping for more information, but instead was faced with an empty sofa, and a rapidly fading door frame. She sighed, and got up yet again to follow Martin. 

Out of those two aforementioned “new residents”, my dear reader, you have already met one - the archivist himself. The second newcomer was a short woman, who at the time of this scene was engrossed in a book entitled The Soul and Its Mechanisms, by Alice Bailey. She was sitting at a worn wooden desk, and the dappled sunlight from the window behind illuminated the gold detail on her hijab. This was Basira Hussain. Like Jon, she was an avatar of the Beholding, despite her past proclivity for violence. However, unlike Jon, she Knew that knowledge was something you acquire slowly, through hunting - it is not something you can consume innocently or gorge yourself upon. There was always a price for knowledge, and she was willing to pay it. This is what had earned her the title of detective; she was patient and calculating. She would go out into the world and make her mark on it, to do whatever it takes to gain knowledge. 

We will leave Basira to her studies, my reader, but don’t worry, we will return to her soon enough. 

Let us move instead back to 93 Lancaster Road, where a small fire had broken out. This was the fault of the third resident, a Mr Timothy Stoker. Mr Stoker, or Tim as he preferred to be called - _too formal, my dear, Mr Stoker was my brother_ \- had a proclivity towards fire in all its forms. While this may have been enjoyable for him, it was certainly not pleasant for his housemates.

Who were currently attempting to save a carpet from flames.

“I didn’t know it would react like that! It was supposed to explode without a flame!” Tim said, backed into a corner of the basement 

“How can something explode without a flame! That’s the entire point!” Sasha replied, shaking the last droplets of water out of the bucket onto the rug. 

“It’s what the book said! I followed the instructions!”

(The book itself, a ratty copy of _Flamma Inceptos_ lying on the floor by the late carpet, was an example of what some call a Leitner - a book either detailing, or creating, supernatural events. This one seemed to be an instruction manual specialising in fire, including the production of fabled Greek fire. Leitners can be identified either by the ornate bookplate stuck onto the inside cover, or by the trail of bodies left behind, mangled or burnt or twisted or inside-out or bleeding or just gone.)

Unlike Sasha, Martin had elected to remain on the relative safety of the stairs. “Are you sure? This sure seems - seems hot.” Martin said, carefully flicking bits of burnt rug off his shirt. The rug itself, a tatty brown thing Sasha swore was actually worth something, was ruined beyond repair, with charred edges and a steadily smoking black hole in the middle of it. Now that the fire was out, Tim picked it up, inspecting the burn marks with no regard for the temperature. 

“Huh - it didn’t spread like a normal explosion would! That’s progress!” Tim exclaimed as he put the rug on the floor again, reaching for _Flamma Inceptos_ and a candle. But before he could reach them, Sasha reached a hand out to stop him.

“Please. We had visitors.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Tim replied, entwining his hand with Sasha’s outstretched one. “Who?”

“Don’t distract me! Helen and Michael - the Distortions from down the road? They came to offer us an invite to a ball.” 

Tim turned towards Sasha, dropping the book on a nearby table. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Sasha replied with a smile, allowing Tim to draw her closer. 

“Are we going?”

“We probably should.”

“Right you are, boss.” Tim said, spinning Sasha around in a terrible impression of waltzing. 

By now, Martin had gone upstairs to his room in the attic, mumbling something about a new shirt and ‘another cup.’ Turning to follow him, Sasha shot a withering look at a jar of acid, precariously balanced on a rickety shelf. Tim used this opportunity to select another bottle and unstopp it, and had just started to pour it into another, larger bottle when - “Stoker, don’t blow up the house. Again. Meet us at the entrance at five o’clock. Wear your best coat, please - the red one, without the holes in it?”

The latter half of that statement was, of course, drowned out by another large explosion. 

You must have a sufficient picture of daily life at the James-Stoker-Blackwood household by now, so let us move farther afield. 

In the nearby woods, a hunter moves silently, stalking her prey. A man alone stands at a window, looking out at the fog-encased lands. Two women share a meal, a cat sleeping on the floor next to them. 

And above all, in the sky and under the ground, in the dark corners no-one can see, the spiders spin their web. They are watching. They can wait. 

\---

I suppose, dear reader, I must tell you more about the residents of 93 Lancaster Road, and how they came to live in such a strange town. 

Sasha James, as you know, was the self-proclaimed local historian. A determined and kind woman, it was her work with the police in the Parfait Incident (case number 0092302) that earned her a house in London and the grudging respect of its residents. Typically you might find her with a cup of coffee - not tea, Martin - curled up in some nook surrounded by papers, furiously scribbling in a ledger, or making house calls on the various inhabitants of the parish. Out of the three, it was her who had the closest acquaintance with Helen and Michael, due to their mutual interest (strangely) in interior design - Sasha herself was fond of tables. 

She knew Tim from a short-lived stint in publishing - Tim himself being an agent for authors such as John Ruskin and Jacques de Plancy. After a rather disastrous encounter with a warped edition of the former’s The Seven Lamps of Architecture - he still maintains there is dirt stuck under his fingernails - Tim switched careers to a study of Leitners themselves, specialising in those concerning the Lightless Flame. A charming man, albeit often angry, some remark that his temper is as changeable as the flames he so adores. 

More often than not, the remarkee is the final resident of the house - Martin Blackwood. Although I do not like to play favourites, dear reader, I do have a soft spot for Martin. Born in Warsaw, Martin and his mother moved to Manchester for work when he was young. Unfortunately his mother fell gravely ill, leaving the teenaged Martin to care for her and their finances. When his mother passed away, he was left penniless and friendless, relying on part-time jobs for income, until a visit to a local pub, alone and desperate, left him with two friends and eventually, a house. Martin is a kind but petty man, admittedly with an inferiority complex a mile wide. 

Sasha wrote for the London Times, Tim vaguely had a job editing books - occasionally torrid romance novels came through the letterbox, and thrown straight into the literally flaming trash - and Martin? Well. He was a poet, and managed a bookshop. That should tell you everything you need to know about Martin Blackwood.

Eventually five o’clock came, and the three assembled at the entrance of 93 Lancaster Road. (If you wanted to know, Tim was indeed wearing the red coat, which had gained a large hole since Sasha saw it last.) They piled into the old carriage, and set off for the Distortions’ house.

Now earlier that day, at the Institute, the inhabitants had received a letter. Now you might not see this as anything out of the ordinary, my reader, remember that this house was the residence of two avatars, who we know as Basira Hussain and Jonathan Sims. 

It was Jon who picked up the letter first, in an attempt to gather a file full of papers he had dropped. In the file (case #0170701, regarding a Miss Winters’ encounter with a computing machine) it remained, and could have remained for a long while yet, until Basira at dinner noticed the edge of spiral-embossed card dangling from the folder Jon was reading whilst he ate. 

“Jon, what’s that?” She asked, nodding at his arm. 

It took a moment for him to respond, being engrossed in the statement of one Matilda McKay, and her encounter with a set of killer secateurs. “Huh? Oh!”

He put the folder down and retrieved the card, reading it aloud: 

_Dear inhabitants of the Institute,_

_You are most cordially invited to a ball, at the house at the end of Mentiras Street. Tonight, 5 o’clock, formal dress._

_We look forward to making your acquaintance._

_Helen and Michael, Distortions._

Immediately after finishing, he said: “We are not going to this, Basira.” 

“Why not?” She replied, leaning back in her chair. “It could be useful.”

“Useful! How so? We know everything we need to know about this town, right here.” Jon retorted, gesturing to the shelves of boxes that lined even the dining room. 

“We know the bare bones, Jon. We - we know them just as well as you know something you see without your glasses.” 

“I - I can’t see anything without my glasses.” He replied, fiddling with the frames of his own tortoiseshell pair. He thought they made him look distinguished. 

Basira crossed her arms. “That’s the point.”

“Ah. I see.” Jon replied, knowing he had been defeated. 

Basira walked over to Jon, picked the note out of his hands and read it over for herself. “Besides, I’ve been looking for a reason to explore London. Get to know the place outside of words, you understand?”

“Yes - yes, I suppose.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking down at Jon. “You know you're not getting out of this, right? If I’m doing this I’ll need company.”

“If I must.” Jon sighed, knocking his head back against the chair.

“Thank you, Jon. Who knows, you might meet someone?” 

“Very funny. You know as well as I the likelihood of that.” 

The remainder of the day was spent hunting for clothes vaguely befitting the occasion of a ball. Basira had found, at the back of a wardrobe in a spare room, a green military coat with gold epaulets, whilst Jon dug out the item of his clothing that was the least worn - a soft grey dress, over which he wore a black jacket with an eye pattern lapel. If you asked me, dear reader, these two looked quite the bit more put-together than the aforementioned trio. 

\---

There has never been, and never will be, anything quite like the Distortions’ house. ‘House’ itself is a bit of a misnomer; it seemed to be made up of endless corridors, with floors of fractals and walls of mirrors. There was something uncanny in its splendour, something strange in the dimensions of the room you were standing in. An impossible house. 

Yet, as our two parties pulled up outside the house, everything seemed to be just as it should be. Lights shone in the windows, carriages were pulling up outside, the faint sound of strings could be heard from inside. The Archivists had elected to walk there, both as a rebellion against society, and due to the lack of a carriage. Or horses. And practical knowledge. 

(“I know the theory of driving one, Basira-” “Theory isn’t practice, Jon! Mind your cane, there’s mud over there.”)

It was just as they were walking along the pavement next to the house when our other party finally arrived - both Martin and Tim had insisted they go back several times on the journey to pick up various items (“Should we bring food? We should bring food, right?” or “Sash, hold up, I forgot my matches!” were two such instances). 

Now, I don’t know how much you know about the weather in London, my reader, but it rained. It rained near constantly, and even when the skies were finally free of clouds water clung on to the buildings and the air like mud to a boot, making it misty. You could say the town was waterlogged, but a more accurate description would be half a tipped-over bucket away from flooding. On this night, however, it was not raining - Michael Crew does have his uses, after all. 

Both of our parties reached the venue without (too) much hassle, the trio piling out of the carriage, smoothing out wrinkles in their coats from travelling. Jon and Basira, meanwhile, had a much more leisurely walk to the Distortions’ house. Mud stains notwithstanding, they arrived at the ball relatively clean. (Apart from Jon’s poor cane. Even now I still don’t think it is clean yet.)

Almost immediately on entering the house, Jon and Basira were separated, swept apart by the tide of people. Not expecting such a large number, and too shocked to be intimidated, Jon was left idly comparing them to an onslaught of worms - Hm. I wonder if Jane’s here. - before a cold hand clasped his shoulder, turning him around to face the owners of the house. 

“Oh, you must be the Archivist! I’ve heard so much about you from Gertrude, rest her soul.” A tall, spindly man said from Jon’s left, his too-long fingers still clutching Jon’s shoulder. With a start Jon realised it was Michael Shelley - or at least, a thing occupying Michael’s body. He had been one of Gertrude’s assistants back when Jon was hired as a mere researcher, but had disappeared a few months later. One less mystery, at least. “I do hope you live up to the expectation.” 

“Yes - yes, I am Jonathan Sims. Pleasure to meet you.” Jon said absently, still shocked by the fate of Michael. 

“You sound unsure, Archivist, why is that? What, have we offended you with our - our little wonderland?” said the other, smiling towards Michael - Helen, Jon’s mind supplied. She and Michael seemed to be wearing matching suits of purple and yellow, the colours melding together in an antonymic contrast. Jon took a moment to look around the front room. The walls were lined with mirrors, giving the appearance of a much larger room, secondary worlds within a room. Colourful bunting was strewn about haphazardly, the colours reflecting neon in the mirrors. It was bright, and confusing, and overwhelming, to say that least. 

Jon didn’t seem to be the only one struggling to parse the decoration - more than a few people were entering strange doors, and coming back out looking shaken, their eyes glazed over. 

“Wonderland is - one word for it, certainly.” Jon finally replied, ducking his shoulder away from Michael’s hand. 

“Yes, it is indescribable.” Helen smiled. “That is the point, dear Archivist!” 

“I can see that.”

Helen continued, leaning towards Jon in a mockery of conviviality. “I bet you’re having a great time. All this fear, all this terror. Who needs music when you have a symphony of scares? Flimsy wordplay, yes, but - am I wrong?” Helen asked, grinning widely. 

Jon grimaced. “I - I suppose. May I take my leave?”

“Of course, dear Archivist! Enjoy our party!” 

The party was indeed confusing, to say the least. Helen and Michael’s unique sense of interior decoration notwithstanding, the sheer amount of people milling around overwhelmed Jon. He stuck to the edges of the crowds, being drawn twice into conversations - once with a short Asian woman whose face seemed to be dripping flesh, and once with a surprisingly energetic old man with stars in his eyes. Both took Jon to be standoffish and proud. Let us leave Jon and his awkwardness, and move instead to the other Beholding avatar. Something interesting is happening to her, at least. 

\---

Basira knew she shouldn’t be here - all of the etiquette books she had read in preparation for an event such as this firmly ordered against exploring your hosts’ house past the customary rooms. At least, they probably did. She had been a bit more focused on the “how to interact with the supernatural” sections, if she were honest. However, here she was, exploring the endless corridors and peeking into rooms. One had seemed to be solely mirrors, infinite reflections of the slightest movement. Quite Beholding of it, if you asked her. Another, a technicolour nightmare that hurt Basira’s eyes to even look at. 

Closing the door of that room, she muttered: “If anyone asks, I’m looking for the bathroom. Yes, that’s innocent enough.” 

She continued down the corridor, which had a garish purple and green carpet (at the insistence of Helen), and bright yellow doors (Michael’s idea). The skies outside had opened and the rain was pouring down, the lightning a yellow streak on the otherwise unchanging darkness. The candle she was using as a guide sputtered, flickering in the still air. 

A door shut behind her. Basira stopped walking, and everything seemed to pause, like the moments before a lens comes into focus, or the moment when the hunter - 

She called out into the dark. “I know you’re there.”

“I expected as much.” A voice replied. Low and with a slight chuckle, it cut through the silence like a sharp knife. 

Basira turned around with a grin. “I’ve missed you. Hello, Daisy.”

“Hello, Detective.” At the other end of the corridor, leaning against the doorframe, stood Alice Tonner, known to the majority of people as Daisy. She was tall, with roughly cut blonde hair. Many years before, Daisy and Basira had been partners on the police force, and as police are wont to do, exploited their position. However, when the Hunt came for them both, they left - Basira on endless inquiries that eventually led her to her current entanglement with the Beholding, Daisy hunting God-knows-what in God-knows-where, but always, always running.

“It’s been too long.” Basira said. 

“What - four years? More?” Daisy drew herself upwards to her full height, and began walking towards Basira.

“Four years, three months, and twelve days.” Basira replied, unperturbed. “That’s when I left.”

“Joined the Archive, did you? How’s that turned out?”

“Daisy, you know I - nevermind. It’s been good for me. If I understand things, if I know how events happen and the mechanics within, I can control them. Not in any manipulative way, I just - it’s nice.”

“Yeah, I understand.” Daisy had reached Basira by now, looking down at her. 

“Plus, the other avatars don’t want to kill you as much as yours do. Well - Jon could do a murder, I guess, but he’d spend too long dithering over the details of a plan to actually flee the scene. A bit like me in that respect, now that’s a thought.”

“Jon?”

“The Archivist - short, uses a cane, probably scowling?”

“I think I saw someone like that.” Daisy paused. “He’s the Archivist? Really?”

“Yup.”

“God.” Daisy laughed. It wasn’t until then that Basira realised just how truly she’d missed her - she’d been fine alone, obviously, but she had been just that: alone. 

Funny, the different connotations of ‘partner.’ 

I suppose now, dear reader, I should give some context. Put my powers to good use. Alice Tonner, ‘Daisy’ if you lived long enough to befriend her, was a detective, unaffiliated to any mortal authority. She hunted those her god deemed wrong, or simply those she found distasteful. There’s no good way of glossing over it - Daisy was a monster, or at least had been. Basira, meanwhile, was the Detective - she was curious, she was willing to hunt down information and knowledge. She had aided Daisy in her violence, refusing to consider We shall leave the detectives to their reunion, and return to our protagonist. There’s a meeting that needs to occur.

\---

Completely oblivious of his housemate’s encounter, Jon skirted the edge of the crowds of people to the buffet table, passing a man in a badly-burnt red overcoat who was talking animatedly to his partner, the face of whom Jon couldn’t quite make out. By now, the buffet had been mildly depleted, the vast majority of guests having now departed to the dance floor. Only one other scavenger remained, a blond man wearing a grey coat and a shirt with a frankly absurd amount of ruffles. Jon walked so he was standing opposite this man, pointedly avoiding looking at him. This, rather unsurprisingly, did not prevent the other man noticing him.

(For an avatar of the Beholding, Jon is really quite oblivious.)

“Oh! Hello! How are you finding the party?” The man said, looking up from his consideration of the plum cake.

“It’s - it’s fine, I suppose.”

“Do you think this is poisoned?” The man said, still inspecting the cake. “Sasha said not to trust the food here, but she’s Sasha, you know.”

“I - I shouldn’t think so - who are you?”

“I’m Martin Blackwood, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man, Martin, drew himself up and stuck out his hand. Jon’s first thought was that he was far too tall. 

He ignored Martin’s hand, although more out of social ignorance than actual rudeness. “My name is Jonathan. Jonathan Sims.” 

“Oh - well, are you here with anyone?” Martin replied, dropping his hand with a hurt look. 

“Yes.” A long pause. “What about you?”

“My housemates are somewhere - oh! Over there, the two dancing like madmen.” Martin pointed at the couple Jon noticed earlier, although the woman’s face could now clearly be seen. She was laughing riotously, as her partner attempted to spin her endlessly, nearly crashing into other couples. “That’s Tim and Sasha - Timothy Stoker and Sasha James, that is. We moved to London a few years ago.”

“Don’t know why anyone would move to London, if I’m honest. The weather is atrocious.” Jon muttered, scowling. 

“Yes, well - that’s part of its charm, you know? I’ve always dreamed of living out in the country, sitting on a window-seat and writing poetry as the rain comes pouring down. Terribly gothic. I - I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling. Have you lived in London long?”

“A few weeks.” Jon replied, still watching Tim and Sasha. 

Martin didn't seem to notice Jon's distraction. “How have you been finding it?” 

“It’s been - tolerable.” Jon looked away from the couple on the dancefloor, back to Mr Blackwood. He had the most pathetic expression on his face, one that spoke of unwanted isolation. Jon thought idly of his comfortable chair back at the Institute, the work he had abandoned to come here. What a waste of an evening. 

“Only tolerable?” Martin asked, with a chuckle that pierced at Jon. It was an irritant, it sounded like cheerful evenings and companionship, something Jon would never allow himself to have. 

Jon huffed. “Yes. The isolation has done wonders for my work ethic but I find the company - barely tolerable.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that." Martin chuckled to himself, smiling. "Hey, at least I’m here?”

“That is my point.” Jon said absently, studying the food on the table. In retrospect, Jon would very much regret saying this, but at that minute he really just wanted to be left alone. 

Martin’s hand paused in its gesture - Jon, ever the hypocrite, hated it when people moved their hands when talking. “Ah. I see. Well, good evening, Mr Sims. I hope you find more suitable company.”

“Good evening, Mr Blackwood.”

Martin turned on his heel, and walked away, leaving Jon standing at the buffet table.

\---

Martin, like Jon, remained on the outskirts of the ball. Aside from Tim and Sasha, he wasn’t friends with anyone in town - he could have a conversation at the shops, sure, or get an invite to afternoon tea as an afterthought, but he didn’t know anyone that the label of 'friend' fit comfortably to. He found it difficult enough considering Sasha and Tim 'friends' sometimes - how is one expected to know what a 'friend' is? There’s no noticeable change that says 'yes, you are my friend,' only an apparently mutual unspoken bond. So, there he remained, at the edge of conversations, alone. 

Still, Martin knew he could never count that Mr Sims as a friend. What a prat. The pride of that man - newly arrived to London, alone at a ball, and still superior. 

When the dancing drew to a close, at some indeterminable late hour, Martin found himself sitting at a table near the dance floor, thinking of poetry and the new volume waiting for him at home. Unfortunately, in his dreaming he had allowed his eyes to wonder, and currently they were resting on the aforementioned Jonathan Sims. When Martin came back to himself, he was met with a glare striking him across the sea of moving colours on the dancing floor. Before Martin’s brain caught up with his eyes, he realised Mr Sims had quite a nice face. Not handsome in the same way as Tim, but fascinating. Piercing eyes that seemed to know you - Martin briefly entertained the idea that he was, indeed, seeing straight into his soul, but that was quickly dismissed. Surely it would be more noticeable? Exposing one’s tragic past is never beautiful. Martin knows that, he’s a poet. 

However, by now Martin’s brain had caught up with himself, and he realised he was staring at the man whom just a few hours ago he decided he hated. He tore his eyes away from Mr Sims’ pointedly, turning to look at the ground instead. Martin felt his face heat up - “that bastard,” he muttered to himself. 

“Are you quite alright, Martin?” A voice said from behind him. Martin turned to find Helen Richardson, dressed in an iridescent purple suit. Her hair was arranged in loose spirals - purposeful or not, to any observer it was instantly obvious that this was a person of power. Martin himself found the Spiral, and the Distortions by extension, slightly intimidating. Nowhere near the level of his abhorrence of the Corruption, but enough to unsettle him. That slight fear of losing himself - Martin knew himself, sometimes he thought that it was the only thing he did know, but still. It picks at you. 

“Yes - Yes, I’m fine, Miss Richardson.”

“Are you sure? You seem to be quite focused.” She replied, smirking slightly.

“Yes! Yes -”

“I’m just kidding, don’t you worry.” Helen cackled, walking past Martin to sit at the seat opposite. She rested her too-large hands on the table, idly looking at her nails. “How have you found the party?”

“The company has been quite interesting.” Martin said, looking over the crowd from their vantage point. 

“Quite interesting? My dear sir, I hope to be more than ‘quite interesting.’”

“No! No, not you.” At this, Martin turned to look at the place where he had last seen Mr Sims.

“Ah. Our dear Archivist.” Helen replied, following Martin’s line of sight. “He’s quite the character, isn’t he? So - so mysterious.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘so rude,’ if I’m honest.” Martin said, idly picking at a nail. 

“No! No, Jon’s quite harmless once you get to know him. Just rather prickly at first.”

“I’m sure.” Martin said, raising an eyebrow. “But - I don’t think I will forgive him. I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not insulted mine.”

“Of course, of course, Martin, I was expecting that. Well, I must dash -” She continued, adjusting her hair and standing up. “Lots of people to greet, chaos to cause, I’m sure you understand.”

“See you later, Miss Richardson.”

\---

The crowd was slowly diminishing; horrors too numerous to count returning to their haunts and homes. This left Martin, still alone, still sitting at his table. From here, he could finally see the actual floor of the floor, which was patterned with fractals - Martin vaguely recalled someone calling fractals the “signifier of chaos,” but no. A spiral is organised - chaotic, yes, but predictable. What’s terrifying are these predictions, too impossible to occur even though they inevitably will. 

As he became lost in the patterns, a shout came from somewhere beyond: “Martin! You’re moping!”

“Oh - hello, Tim.” Martin stuttered, looking up from his observations.

“Martin! We’ve been looking for you!” Without his noticing, Tim and Sasha had walked up behind him. Both looked tired, with the sort of exhausted smile one wears when you have had an especially good evening. Their hands were held tight together, swinging back and forth.

“Nice evening?” Martin asked, leaning against the uncomfortable back of the chair. Seriously, you’d think they’d at least have suitable chairs for the less actively-inclined. Terrible planning.

“Very enjoyable, me and Sash absolutely scandalised the Lukases - ” Tim answered, before being cut off by Sasha giggling: “I for one am surprised they even came!”

“I know, right?” Tim answered her, turning to look at his partner. “But anyway - Martin, we haven’t seen you all night! Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there, not really talking to anyone, you know me. Stood at the buffet table for a while, didn’t have anyone to dance with.” Martin shrugged, a noncommittal gesture. “Don’t really mind that, if I’m honest. I’m glad you two had a good evening, though! Believe me, I am. You deserved a night off.”

“Didn’t burn anything down as well!” Tim added, looking unreasonably pleased with himself. Still, Martin noticed he did a quick pat-down of his coat, checking for any new burn marks.

“Yes, I’m so proud.” Sasha murmured in reply, a smirk playing on her face.

Tim turned towards Martin again, suddenly concerned. “You really didn’t talk to anyone, Martin?”

“No, no-one of note. Aside from Helen Richardson, but -”

“Ah. Yeah.”

“It’s alright Tim, honest. Don’t worry.” Martin said, smiling softly. 

“Wait, I saw Martin talking to somebody!” Sasha exclaimed, sticking an arm around Martin’s shoulders. 

Tim’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? Oh, really? What happened to ‘no-one of note’?”

His face hardened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not so sure - you two did seem to be close.” Sasha teased, leaning closer to the sitting Martin. 

“Sasha!”

Sasha leaned back, crossing her arms. “I didn’t recognise him. Tim, what do you think?” she said, nodding at her partner. 

Tim adapted a similar pose. “Just like our Martin to have a torrid affair with a mysterious man. Right out of Austen.”

“Drop it. Please.”

“Martin -”

“He wasn’t - nice? He insulted me. Called me,” and here he did a (rather over-exaggerated, if I might add) impression of Mr Sims’ upper class accent, “barely tolerable.”

Tim dropped his arms, resting a hand on Martin’s shoulder instead. “Ah. Sounds like a wanker.”

Martin laughed. “I know, right?” 

“God, men. Let’s go home, shall we? I think I’ve danced enough for one night.” Sasha said, already walking towards the door. 

And with that, my dear reader, the ball has concluded. Meetings, or reunions, have occurred. There really is such a thing as hate at first sight. 

\---

Jon and Basira’s stubborn decision to walk to the Distortion’s house resulted in them walking across the misty hills of London in pitch-black night, only the light of the blinking stars above as guides. When they (eventually, and in a far more dirty state than when they had left) returned to the Institute, Basira sat down on the tatty couch in the front room, staring out of the window deep in thought. If you had asked him, Jon would have said she looked - confused? Yes, confused, but somehow happy to remain in ignorance. Quite out of character. However, the Jon of this time was searching through the mess of files on his desk in the next room, trying to pick up where he had left off before he had been so rudely interrupted.

“Basira, where did you put your research for Mr Pryor’s statement? The private investigator?” He called absently, focused on skimming through a crammed notebook, turning it sideways to read notes scribbled in the margin.

Basira jumped. “Jon, what - are you doing work? Now?”

“Thought you'd approve.” He said, walking back into the front room where Basira sat. “You’re the detective, after all.”

“It’s past midnight. I’m getting some sleep.” Basira stood up, walking out of the room and towards the stairs. 

Jon followed her, turning the corner into his study. “See you! Oh - before I forget to ask: how did you find the ball? Did it live up to your expectations?”

Basira paused on the staircase, hand resting on the rail. “You know, it actually did.” A pause. “You?”

“It was - it was certainly eventful. Met the most annoying man.” Jon replied, crossing his arms. 

“Blackwood, right? I heard a few people talking about him. What did he do wrong?” Basira said. 

“Well, firstly -” Jon held up his index finger, clearly beginning a list.

Basira shook her head, and cut Jon off. “I think I will go to sleep. Goodnight, Jon. Actually get some sleep tonight, alright?”

Jon chuckled. “Alright. Night, Basira.”


	2. you must be the best judge of your happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Emma. 
> 
> [english brain says write in austen's style. dialogue brain says no <3]

Outside the boundaries of London, there was a small cottage. Removed from the noise and bustle of the town, it seemed almost trapped in time. Its owners had obviously done many renovations to the place, re-thatching the roof and replacing window-frames, patchy paint-jobs that made the exterior a kaleidoscope of off-white. The chimney was smoking, the herb garden on the windowsill was thriving, and honeysuckle was climbing up the lattices placed where no one could be bothered to paint. A cat sat asleep on the brick wall fencing the property, basking in the dappled sunlight of late afternoon. A fairy-tale picture, for a fairy-tale story. 

Not many people knew of the inhabitants’ tale. Those who did - well, they were either dead, or too wrapped up in their own mysteries to care about a happy couple. But if you asked the Archivist, he would tell you a tale of a woman with no fear and of a woman with no sight, motionless rocks in the tide of terror avatars bring. Theirs was a gentle peace, carved out of bloody suffering. 

If he was in a less floral mood, he would narrate a story of a woman who escaped the all-seeing Eye by blinding herself, and the person who cared for her, a journalist who recorded all impassively. They had looked the horror of fear in its face, and walked away. 

Two women were sitting on the faded yellow sofa in the front room. One of them, Georgie, was reading aloud from a book in her hands, Romance of the Forest embossed on the front in cursive lettering. Her wife had her feet resting on the arm of the sofa, her head in Georgie’s lap.

Breaking from her reading, Georgie asked: “Melanie, love, what do you want for lunch?” 

“What do we have?” Melanie replied, her hand lazily tracing shapes onto Georgie’s cheek. 

“Um - bread, mainly, I think.” She said, hand coming up to rest against Melanie’s. “Some turkey, vegetables from the garden, the apples were alright at breakfast.”

“Damn. We might be needing another shop soon.”

Georgie paused for a second, thinking. “Maybe - shame we can’t get Oliver over, borrow his cart.”

“What? What’s happened to him?” Melanie sat up, her feet moving to rest on the floor. 

“Nothing, nothing, he just said he was busy for the next few weeks. Something about a forest of death and needing to untangle it.”

“Ah.” She leaned against the back of the sofa. “Regular fear activity, then?”

“Seems so! We’ll just have to carry the food instead - we might be able to borrow Miss James’ carriage.”

“Who?”

“James? Sasha James - works for the paper, I talked to her once about the Keay House. Did you know it’s supposed to be haunted? She lives with - Stoker, I think it is? And Blackwood.” Her voice took on a distinctly unimpressed tone. “He’s a poet.”

Melanie chuckled at her wife's apathetic face. “I’ve still no idea who you’re talking about, G. Never heard of this Sasha James.”

“It doesn’t matter. But, you never answered my question: what do you want for lunch?”

“Turkey sandwich, I guess. Give me an apple as well, would you?”

“Of course.”

“Whilst you do that, I’m going outside to check on the Admiral.” Melanie stood up, reaching for the cane balanced against the sofa. 

“He’s on the wall, just to the left of the front gate. You’re good to head out there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Call me when lunch is ready?”

“Naturally. Love you!”

\---

The next day, Melanie and Georgie set out on the trek to London, armed with a cane, many bags, and the Admiral. (Georgie had insisted.) At the same time, our dear Archivist decided to wander through the streets of the neighbouring town to do - what had Basira called it, reconnaissance? Although it would be perhaps more truthful to say he hoped to encounter Mr Blackwood from the ball earlier that week. He wasn’t sure why, and didn’t see any reason to examine that thought.

On his wanderings, Jon had discovered the town’s sole bookshop. It was a creaky building, with water dripping from holes in the ceiling and ivy beginning to creep up the bookcases, securing the knowledge and understanding within a prison of nature. Some sort of ironic reclamation, Jon pondered. Still, he resolved to return there someday. Rescue the books. Until that day, it would serve well as an alternate base to the Institute, and its metaphorical ivory towers of academia and austerity. There was one shopkeeper, who remained at the back of the shop, her nose stuck in a book. She seemed oddly familiar - had she given a statement to Gertrude? No, that wasn’t it. 

Jon remained in what really should not be called a bookshop for a few hours, reading the spines of the books where legible, Knowing the contents where not. He even recognised a few of those awful Leitners - notably a copy of _Ex Altiora_ covered in blue mould (aptly fitting) and the _Key of Solomon_ in scroll format, the ink on the tag blurred with water damage. 

When he eventually returned to the open air, the sun was starting to set. The shopkeepers were starting to shut up, the streetlamps beginning to be lit, and any remaining customers were heading home. Sitting down on the stairs to the shop, he muttered: “So much for reconnaissance, I guess,” half to himself, half to the cat sitting on the window ledge of the shop. It seemed to be waiting for something, looking expectantly up at Jon. 

Jon stared at the cat. The cat stared back. “What do you want? Are you - ok!” As Jon was rambling, the cat jumped onto his lap. “Oh, good lord - mind the knees please. You want a stroke? Yes, yes, you are a good cat.” He remained there for a while, awkwardly petting a stranger’s cat, until he was drawn out of his reverie by voices echoing down the road.

“Admiral? Georgie, can you see him?” The first voice called. 

“No, no - can’t believe he ran off like that, he never does that.” A second voice, this one slightly familiar. 

“It must be getting dark by now, maybe he’s gone home?”

“Oh - hello, good evening.” Jon called down the road, wincing immediately after. Yes, Jon, what an incredible idea it is to engage with a person you recognise, who, as prior experience has demonstrated, probably wants to hurt you. “I think I have your cat?” He continued. “I found him, I mean. He was sitting on the ledge over there, and kind of trapped me here? Wait -” He attempted to stand up again, and failed. “Wait, you said Georgie? I thought I knew that voice. Georgie Barker, is that you?”

“Jon? What are you doing here?” The voice called once more. It was indeed Georgie, carrying several bags filled with what seemed to be food. 

“I live here.” Jon replied, hand scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Here?” Georgie walked in front of him, looking up at the dilapidated bookshop with eyebrows furrowed. 

“Well, not here here, but nearby?” He muttered, gesturing in the broad direction of the hills. “I - I didn’t know you were here, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” At this he attempted to stand up, but the cat - The Admiral, he remembered, must address him by his proper title - dug his claws into Jon’s legs, obstinately staying put. “Ow - ow, Admiral!”

“Georgie, what’s going on?” The owner of the second voice, a short blind woman, said. 

“Nothing, love.” She replied, catching the second person’s hand. “I found the cat, and an old -” She paused. “Friend.”

She and Jon had been friends, more than friends, at university. But their relationship didn’t stand the test of time, and they had grown apart. Jon had - missed her, he supposed. Missed her company. 

“It’s a pleasure? My name is Jonathan Sims.” This time he didn’t try to stand up. 

“Oh, that Jon? I’m Melanie. Melanie King. Georgie’s mentioned you a few times.”

“Favourably, I hope.”

Melanie muttered something to Georgie, causing her to giggle. Jon watched them, so happy and sure of the other’s thoughts and emotions. Made him wish for - no, no. There’s no-one for him. 

Georgie turned back to him. “Well - I believe I’ll be having our cat back.” 

“Yes, sorry. Wait - our?”

“Yes, our.” Melanie said, raising an eyebrow. 

Jon paused, thinking for a second. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Georgie said, glancing at Melanie and smiling warmly. “Well, we’d best be going. Long trek back, and we need to find Sasha’s house.”

“Good luck.” Jon said. Extracting the Admiral from his lap was a difficult business, but after the sacrifice of his trousers with a few claw-holes, he was deposited in Georgie’s arms.

After settling the cat, Georgie looked up at Jon. “It was good to see you, Jon. Stay safe.”

“You too."

\---

Back at the Institute, Basira was alone. Not Lonely-with-a-capital-L, but certainly missing something. She suspected that this absence was actually rather a someone, but she had work to do. She could consider her emotions after she read just one more book in the library, consulted just one more map. It was quite an interesting case she was investigating, if she was honest - man returns from his travels with an ornate vase, things start to go missing, he doesn’t notice until one morning he wakes up to an empty bed and a missing husband. A textbook case of the Spiral, but intriguing nonetheless.

However, she was jerked out of her academic reverie by the clatter of the letterbox - in a normal house, one would not be able to hear it, however the Institute was not a normal house. It seemed to have been especially constructed so that one could hear the footsteps of every person in the house, one of the more blasé Beholding qualities of the house. As a result, Basira could hear clearly the bang of it closing. She closed her book - an analysis of Greek vase painting - and went to investigate, grabbing a knife from the side table. It was there for emergencies, you understand. There was one on every side table, she had placed them there herself. 

She descended the dark stairs, avoiding the few places where the wood was fragile and liable to creak, keeping close to the worn green wall-coverings. The front door was an imposing thing, the stained-glass eye above it casting the corridor in a sickly light. However, contrary to her expectations, there was no bloody figure of flesh standing at its end. (Soon after Basira and Jon had moved into the Institute, their hiding place had been discovered by Jared Hopworth. It had not been a pretty site to clean up.) There was no more fog outside than is to be expected in the English countryside, nor was the door wrong. The only change in her surroundings was a letter, sealed with twine and lying, almost delicately on the doormat. 

Basira edged forward. No shadows moved aside from her own, her reflection in the window still looked right. She reached out to grasp the letter, then hurriedly returned to the relative safety of her library. Darn it. She had lost her page in the book. To distract herself, she opened the letter. It read:

_Basira,_

_Meet me at the edge of the woods, near the old folly on this estate. Sundown._

_Alice._

“Well, shit.” She said to the empty room. “What do I do with this?”

\---

At Lancaster Road meanwhile, messages were being sent of a decidedly different function.

“Genuinely, Tim, why did you think this was a good idea?” Sasha asked, flopped ungracefully on the sofa in the front room. 

“It made sense to me! It satisfies my patron with the destruction, is useful to you and Martin, a win-win situation.”

“There are piles of ash. Everywhere.” She replied, gesturing at one nearby on the side table. 

“God - Tim, there’s some on my poetry books!” Martin added, inspecting the bookshelves and blowing ash off them. 

Tim crossed his arms. “Oh dear me, what a transgression.” 

“Just - keep your more destructive experiments downstairs? And before you say it, messages carried by hot air which burn themselves up once you read them are, in fact, destructive.” 

“Anything for you, Sash.” Tim said, sitting on the sofa next to Sasha. “So. Martin. Haven’t seen you recently, you’ve been locked up in your attic. How are you doing?”

Martin froze, hand still on his books. He hadn’t expected to be under scrutiny. “I’m fine. Quite fine.” 

“I think he’s still hacked off about the ball.” Sasha said in a faux whisper, leaning towards Tim. 

“About that man?" Tim said, copying Sasha's tone. "What, is he hung up on him?”

Martin’s feelings on Jonathan Sims were complicated. He knew objectively he should hate him, and he did - never before had Martin met a man quite so uncompromisingly disagreeable. But still, he felt drawn to him, in a way Martin didn’t quite have the patience or the vocabularly to unravel. It wasn’t the Web’s influence, he knew that. Besides, Martin was sure he would never see Jonathan again. People don’t usually call on Martin Blackwood more than once, and he was quite content with that. Truly, he was, no matter if the view from the window-seat of his attic library got too isolated, too lonely, sometimes. He was fine. Just fine. 

“I cannot deny he was - certainly handsome.” Martin eventually said.

“Oh, was he now?” Tim smirked, leaning forward. 

“Tim!” Martin sighed. “Look, he was good-looking, but I can’t stand a man that dismissive -”

“Wait - this man, his name was Sims, right?” Jonathan Sims.” Sasha interrupted, suddenly sitting upright. 

“Yes, how did you -”

“Talked to an ‘old friend’ of his yesterday I think - you remember Melanie, Tim?” Sasha said.

“Melanie...Melanie King? Married to Mrs Barker, right? She does research into the supernatural from a strictly non-Entity standpoint.”

“Yeah. Turns out Barker knew Jon years ago.”

“Damn. Would not have made that connection.”

“Me neither.” Sasha continued. “I almost want to know the whole story. But, apparently Jon’s a Beholding avatar. Or more specifically, the Archivist”

Tim let out a whistle. “Holy shit, Martin, I’m impressed. You pissed off the Archivist.”

(Tim would later revise this impression of Jon.)

Martin paused. “What do I care for him? I don’t need his approval, he has nothing to use against me.”

(The Archivist, in the near future, would take offence to this. But that’s a scene for later.)

\---

By now, it was sundown. Basira stood in front of the Institute door, bathed in the sickly green light of the stained glass, armed with a knife. Never hurt to be prepared.

She opened the door with a rusty key, and left the house, a hard look in her eyes. 

Objectively, the trek from the Institute to the forest was beautiful - quite hilly and steep at times, but this allowed for some truly stunning views. In one direction was the town of London, which at this time was washed with the golden light of sundown. If you looked close enough, you could see the shapes of people returning to their homes, or maybe a runaway cat. In the other direction was the forest. A dark, shifting scar it was, a mass on the landscape straight out of Grimm’s Tales. However, Basira found its oppressive silence almost comforting. It made you focus, made you single-minded. She needed that. 

So, she walked. A storm was coming on, grey clouds slowly accumulating in the sky, but she ignored them. 

Now, dear reader, you may know this already, but forgive me the repetition. A folly is a facade of antiquity, an attempt of the eccentric rich to tie themselves even further to the land. The folly on the Magnus estate was a recreation of a tower, which some called ‘the Lighthouse.’ Its builder, Jonah Magnus, had apparently preferred it to be known as the Panoptican, but most decided this was far too complicated for everyday use. He had paid for the construction of a tower in the middle of the country, built with care and the most expensive materials possible, then had it artfully torn down and weathered, encouraging ivy to encase the physical showing of his wealth. Frankly, Basira thought it was a waste of money, time and land.

When she arrived at the Lighthouse, the sun had not yet fully set. She sat on the steps leading to the door, the knife which had been grasped tightly in her hand now lying on the chipped stone steps. Her fingers worried the groove of one of these chips, feeling the texture of purposeful destruction. She Knew the tool which had made it, she Knew the man who had striked it, but she did not care. 

So lost was she in her thoughts, she did not hear the footsteps approaching. (Or perhaps she could not hear, I have long wondered about the stealth abilities of Hunt avatars.)

“Hello again.” Basira turned around to find Daisy leaning against the wall of the folly, arms crossed. 

“Daisy! You surprised me -”

“How are you? You look well.”

“I’m fine. We need to talk.” Basira replied, standing up. 

“I suppose we do.” Daisy said, a resigned expression on her face. 

Basira ignored the look on Daisy's face. “Are you still part of it? The Hunt?” 

“That’s - that’s a complicated question.” She took a few steps back.

“I need to know.” 

“Of course you do.” Daisy sighed. “I am indebted to the Hunt, I suppose. But since you left, I’ve been working on it. What was it, listening to the quiet?” She smiled. “Yes, I’ve been trying to be - at peace? I can satisfy my patron easily enough by hunting for food. There are so many of us hunters in the world, its survival hardly hinges on me.”

“Oh. That’s - that’s good to hear, Daisy.”

“Not exactly what you were expecting, I suspect?” Daisy smirked. 

“Slightly.” Basira admitted, shaking her head. 

Daisy sat on the steps, next to Basira, stretching her legs out in front of her. “You could’ve just Known, you know.”

“That would be cheating.”

“Even so.” She smiled. “But - how are you? How is it with the Archivist?”

Basira sat down next to her. “It’s good. I have a purpose now. And Sims is - he’s alright. Surprised he isn’t dead yet, but he tries.”

“I’m happy you’re okay.”

“Same for you.”

A lull in the conversation. Fortunately, the heavens chose that minute to open, the dark clouds that had steadily been accumulating pouring down. 

“Oh, shit -”

“Come on, let’s go inside.” Daisy said, reaching towards Basira's arm. She leant back. 

“Daisy, I really don’t trust the structural integrity -”

“It’ll be fine. This thing has stood for what - fifty years? And it hasn’t fallen yet.”

The interior of the Lighthouse was as weathered as its exterior. There seemed to be a single room, a mockery of an old chapel. Rotted-away steps circled the walls, presumbaly leading to the room that gave the folly its' nickname. Empty bookshelves leant against the half-decayed walls, the books either spoiled or stolen. 

“Huh. This must have been some sort of hideaway.” Daisy said, running a finger along a row of dusty books.

Basira watched her from her position at the open door, looking up at the rotting rafters. “Hideaway from what? His angry tenants? Magnus apparently set exorbitant tax rates.”

“Oh, a right twat.”

Basira laughed, glancing at Daisy. “Seems so.”

Out of habit, she moved to look at the bookshelves. Daisy started walking around the perimeter, peering at the small cracks and ivy. 

After a few minutes, Basira paused her inspection of the books, her “Oh, shit - I’m not going to be able to walk back.”

“Why?”

“Daisy, it’s raining. This is my best skirt. I’m not ruining it.” Basira said, outraged. 

Daisy smirked. “You wore your best skirt out here?” 

“Maybe. Doesn’t mean anything. If I have to stay in here until the storm blows over, I swear -”

“Come home with me.” Daisy interrupted, before immediately recoiling. 

“What?”

“I mean - you could spend the night at my house? It’s not too far from here, just slightly into the forest.” 

“How long have you lived here?”

“Not long. I move around. But, what do you say?”

Basira looked through the glass-less window in the direction of the Institute. Then she looked at Daisy. What, really, did she have to loose. “I’ll follow you.”

\---

True to character, Jon did not notice Basira’s absence the next day, too preoccupied with planning the day’s investigations on a scrap of paper. He had to finish the post-statement on Mx. Moses’ country walk gone awry that had been (quite literally) hanging over him for over a week now, and some more puzzling over Elias Bouchard’s financial records could not go amiss. He tentatively enjoyed the idea of an afternoon return to the town, or more specifically the bookshop, but decided against that in favour of work.

(He wrote down ‘a walk’ on the paper eventually. Basira had been nagging at him to take some time off anyway.)

The morning passed by as mornings are wont to do - in too many cups of tea and many, many scribbled notes. Apparently Mx Moses was now doing just fine, seemingly untraumatised after their encounter with a bottomless sky. By 1 o’clock, Jon was sat at his desk, unsure of how exactly to proceed with his day. Looking at the paper, he decided there was nothing to do but to walk down to London. For reconnaissance purposes, obviously. 

(The chance of seeing a certain blond man again did not harm this prospect, a fact Jon would not recognise until much later.)

The walk done to London was unremarkable - one previous inhabitant of the Institute had taken the time to install a smooth path down the hill it stood on, making the journey easier for Jon and his cane. Lost in thought, Jon didn’t realise he had unconsciously walked back to the bookshop, and was half-way up the stairs. Oh well. When in Rome.

He opened the door, saying as the bell rang: “Hello - oh God, why are you here?”

Of all the people working here, it had to be that man from the ball - what was his name, Marvin, Martin? Martin! Martin Blackwood. 

“Good afternoon to you too.” Martin said placidly, looking up from his book at the tellers’ desk, opposite the door. “Wait,” his expression changed, hardening - “It’s you, what are you doing here?”

“I - I found this place yesterday.” Jon stuttered. 

“You found the bookshop? Well done.” Martin smirked, raising an eyebrow. 

Jon ignored the obvious challenge, instead asking: “Why are you here, anyway?”

“I work here. Isn’t that obvious?” 

“Oh - I didn’t think anyone else worked here?” Jon said. 

Martin raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you can keep a shop afloat with just one person running it. The person you saw yesterday would have been Miss Law, I think.”

“Why is it in such terrible condition, then? Are you just inattentive?” 

“Mr Sims.” Martin replied, putting down his book - Jon thought it was one of those trashy romances Basira complains about. “Surely by now you’ve recognised that the majority of my stock are Leitners? As a person unaligned to any one fear, I cannot touch them without terrible things happening to me, and whilst it may come as a shock to you, I quite like myself as I am.”

“Hm." That was reasonable, Jon supposed. "What do you look after here, then?”

“The poetry section.” Martin gestured to the bookshelves immediately right of him. “And the accounts, of course, neither me or Fiona are that mathematical so it is all hands on -”

“Poetry? What - Keats and such like?” Jon interrupted, chuckling.

Martin looked affronted. “Yes, actually.”

A pause. “A waste of paper, if you ask me.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Martin responded. “Besides, I like it. Poetry can be quite affecting.”

“Don’t wax poetic at me.”

Martin stared at him. Then giggled. God, let me tell you, reader, the sight of Martin laughing is rather beautiful. Jon would agree with me. But he also liked poetry, and Jon thought poetry was just yet another excuse for overdramatic displays of quite mundane emotions. I must agree with him, dear reader - I’ve tried for so long to like poetry, yet I still find it impenetrable. 

“Apologies, just - the look on your face.” He caught his breath, the smile leaving his face. “So. What do you want, Mr Sims?”

“Call me Jon, it’s easier.”

“Of - of course. Call me Martin.” He said. 

Jon nodded. “Right. I don’t need your help, to answer your question. I was just going to look at the Leitners, you won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Don’t bring any supernatural forces into my shop, Jon. I hope you find the company of the books tolerable.”

Jon walked towards the shelf, then stopped suddenly, turning back towards Martin. “Actually, since you’re here, I also want to ask you -” 

“I really must be going, I’ve some ledgers to attend to.” Martin said, interrupting him and standing up from his desk, moving towards the back of the shop.

Jon sighed, saying: “Of course, of course. I’ll call if I need anything.”

Martin entered the backroom of the shop - to the casual observer, it was a disorganised clutter, but both Martin and Fiona insisted there was an order to it. Loose papers and leather-bound account books were scattered over every available surface, the hardwood floor scratched and ink-stained. The aforementioned Miss Law was sat at a desk, scribbling in an accounts book when Martin came in. 

“Who was that?” She asked with a smile, looking up from her book. 

“No-one of note.” Martin replied. He picked up another accounts book by its spine, meaning the loose pages within tumbled to the floor. Martin sighed, and began to collect them.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes -" Martin said, picking up the last of the papers. "Do you remember the man I told you about? From the ball.”

“Ah, yes. Mr Tolerable.” Fiona replied with a laugh, putting down her pen and turning in her chair to face Martin on the floor. “That him?”

“Yes. Didn’t apologise, or anything. And - Fiona, don’t. I know what you say, and yes, he is quite handsome, but - don’t look at me like that!”

She raised her eyebrows. “Quite handsome, hey?” 

Martin looked panicked. “Quiet! He’s still in the shop.” 

“Oops - it wouldn’t hurt, though. I know how often you read love poetry, Martin.”

“Don’t remind me." Martin sighed. "Just - if he apologises, I’ll forgive him. Anything else that happens will happen." Martin stood up, placing the collected pages back on the table, any attempts at organisation abandoned. "Anyway, I should head back out to the front - see if any other customers magically appear.”

“Good luck!” Fiona called, as Martin exited.

\---

Earlier that same day, Basira woke up in an unfamiliar house. Stretching and yawning, she saw rough wooden walls and bare floors - a far cry from the tattered opulence of the Institute. Immediately she stood up, right hand reaching for a knife that was now missing.

“Easy, Basira! It’s just me.” Basira spun around to find Daisy with her arms outstretched in a placating gesture, a look of worry in her amber eyes. “It’s alright, you’re safe.” Daisy walked closer, grasping Basira's knifeless right hand. 

When she had acclimatised to her surroundings, Basira asked: “How long have you been up?”

“Since sunrise. I’m making breakfast, if you’d like to help?” Daisy dropped her hand, gesturing towards the open door.

“Uh - of course.”

“Don’t tell me you have servants to make breakfast for you at the Institute.”

“No! No, not at all. It’s just a surprise.” Basira followed Daisy into the kitchen, the floor creaking under her tread. 

The kitchen itself could be described as rustic at best, and dilapidated at worst - the fireplace was cobwebbed, the copper pans hanging above the counter-tops dented or rusty. The once-blue tiles were faded and cracked.

“What was this place,” Basira asked, “before you found it?”

“Don’t you know already?” Daisy replied, smirking slightly. 

“Daisy.”

“Fine.” She sighed. “I think it was some kind of retreat, a little cottage in the woods.”

“Quite romantic, that.” Basira said absently. 

(Basira did not notice this, but at this Daisy smiled softly.) “A little bit.” 

“We should get back to breakfast.” Basira said, the implications of what she said catching up to her.

Daisy smiled. “Yes. Breakfast is good.” 

“What do you have?”

“Some bread - if you get the tea going I can make us eggs?”

“Sounds lovely.”

Breakfast itself was a quiet affair, plates balanced on the rickety table in the corner of the kitchen. They talked of small nothings - the day-to-day of their lives without each other. They pointedly avoided any mention of the Entities, until - 

“How’d you end up with the Archivist, Basira?” Daisy asked, gesturing towards her with her fork. 

“Got too involved with a hunt, attracted the attention of Elias -”

“Fuck Elias Bouchard.” She interrupted. 

“ _Fuck Elias Bouchard._ But - long story short, I was coerced into working for him. You know me, I can’t avoid a mystery.” 

“Yeah. So. What are you going to do now.”

“I know I should want to return to the Institue, but -. Can I - I want to stay here. With you. Till this morning I didn’t realise just how much I missed you. And I don’t want to give that up, if you’ll have me.”

Daisy reached out, hovering her right hand above Basira’s on the table. Basira nodded, and Daisy rested her hand on Basira’s, brushing her thumb. After a long moment, Daisy’s brow furrowed. “What will you do for statements?”

Basira gave it a moment's thought. “I can trek back. Jon won’t mind.”

“If you say so.”

It’s always good to know your friends have a happy ending. So, let us leave these two reunited in comfort, and return to our protagonist.

\---

Loath as he was to return to Blackwood’s bookshop once more, Jon realised he had to. That place had the largest collection of Leitners he’d seen, he had to go back. Jon just wished the manager could be - more agreeable? More welcoming? Honestly, he couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. He’d only met the man once, at the Distortions’ ball. Ah. Shit.

Why did Blackwood care what Jon thought, though? He was - a good-looking man, he had friends, he had a job and a life. He didn’t need the approval of a prideful Archivist. 

“I should apologise.” he mumbled out loud, dropping his head down on the desk. 

The walk was once more uneventful, and the town its usual level of bustling strangeness. A woman leaving muddy footsteps, a man with a lightning scar and crackling blue eyes was par for the course in this town of avatars and the mundane. 

Eventually he reached the bookshop, and ascended the stairs. (The Admiral was, unfortunately, not there.) The bell above the door rang as he entered, alerting the sole person inside to his presence.

“Back so soon, Archivist?” Martin called from his chair, feet propped up on the desk. Jon had been right, it was one of those romance novels Basira rants about. 

“What can I say, I missed the company." Jon made his way over to the Leitner bookshelves, before pausing mid-tread. "Wait, how did you know -”

Martin smirked. “Some friends told me. It doesn’t change anything, Jon. Your Leitners are where they always have been.”

“I meant to - nevermind.” Jon smiled. “Thank you, Martin.”

Two hours passed in silence, the men too engrossed in their own worlds to bother with conversation.

“Jon?” Martin called out into the quiet.

Jon raised his head from the book he was studying - _The Stalwart Hunter’s Almanac_ (It had reminded him of an old acquaintance.) - and turned to Martin. “Yes?”

“Why do you read the Leitners?” He asked, head balanced on his hands. “I know of their value and their power, but what do you get out of them? Knowledge? But surely you Know all already -”

“I don’t.”

“What?” Martin asked, sitting up. 

“I really, really don’t, Martin.” He paused, closing his eyes. “I try not to Know things about people - if they’re scared, then yes, I am forced to feel their fear - but I don’t want to be the kind of person that tears into someone’s mind and strips it empty. I’ve been that person, and - never again. The Leitners are -” He stopped, trying to think of what to say. He avoided looking at Martin, who by now was walking over to where Jon stood. “What do you know about Elias Bouchard?”

“I know he is a Beholding avatar, and I’ve heard his name in conjunction with Peter Lukas, but that’s it.” Martin answered, stopping next to Jon. 

He took a breath. “He was a Beholding avatar, Martin. He’s dead.”

“Oh?” 

“He died, and Gertrude died, and now I’m here.” Jon leant against the bookshelf, sliding down to sit on the floor. Martin joined him. “When I first became the Archivist, I didn’t know anything about the entities, or avatars, or the divine fears that rule us. Elias chose me to become the Archivist, and refused to tell me about any of this.” At this Jon threw his hands up in the air, gesturing in exasperation. Martin caught one of his hands, before frantically dropping it. 

Jon continued on, unaware: “He tried to end the world, Martin. He tried to use me to end the world. But he’s dead. He failed, and I’m left without a clue.” Jon shook himself. “I - I’m sorry, that was quite the tangent. I read the Leitners so I know what’s going on, so I know who to trust and what to do.” 

“You don’t need to apologise, Jon.” Martin said, a hand reaching out to brush Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon sighed. “No, no, I should - I actually came here to apologise for my behaviour at the Distortions’ ball. I called you tolerable-”

“Barely tolerable, in fact.” Martin smiled. 

“God, that’s actually worse.” Jon huffed. He turned to face Martin on the floor, looking him in the eye. “I called you ‘barely tolerable’ when I did not know you, and I am regretful of my pride.”

Martin continued looking at him. Not in scrutiny or malice, Jon recognised with a start, but with purpose. He was searching for something. “I forgive you, I think.” He said finally. 

“You don’t have to, I can leave-” Jon said, moving to get up. 

“No.” Martin interrupted, hand reaching out once more to grab Jon’s arm. He seemed to realise what he had done and relaxed his grip, shaking his head. “Stay.” Martin continued, smiling up at Jon. 

Jon gave the barest hint of a smile, sitting back down. “As you wish.”

“Um - Do you want a cup of tea?” Martin asked, standing up and brushing the dust off his trousers. 

“Yes, please.” Jon replied, from his position on the floor. “With honey, if you have it.”

“Of course.” 

With that, Martin bustled off to the backroom, presumably to find a kettle, leaving Jon sitting on the floor, bathed in mid-afternoon sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh LORE?!
> 
> maybe i have a worldbuilding document for this fic. maybe not <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Chapters Two and Three should be coming within the next day, so keep an eye out. If you'd leave a comment that would mean the world to me, I hope you (dear reader) have a nice day.


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